


White Dahlia

by BeveStuscemi



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14066709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeveStuscemi/pseuds/BeveStuscemi
Summary: We getting higher to die, purified through the fireThrough trials I go, if I survive, take me to green isles,Otherwise kiss my eyelids closedThis is the road I chose, I roam alone.(Rejected) I hate the way my vision's oscillating.Guide no longer by my side, I'm too high(Neglected) I sit waiting, reflecting.-The Buttress, Inferno.





	White Dahlia

In a world grey from haze, Dahlia sees the light. She spins faster and faster, arms flailing wildly above the billowing fabric of the thin robe clothing her and she collapses. She can see nothing beside the blurred vision of her own hands, but she can hear the excited murmuring of the men surrounding her. One of the men hastily scribbles down a number onto his piece of chalkboard and Dahlia scrambles to her feet, legs weak from exertion. She continues to spin. Every nerve is on fire as she continues her sacrificial dance, her head pounding within her skull as her eyes try to focus on the hooded faces that watch her diligently. Her nose burns, and she can feel the blood start to drip from her nostril and into her mouth, she can taste the iron within her blood.

  
Dahlia collapses again, the third time since the ritual began hours ago. This time, she scraped her leg and the white robe tears and the fabric runs red. The men become more ecstatic and they move closer to Dahlia as she struggles to pick herself up from the floor. Her hands were cut from the descent and pieces of rock and stone imbed themselves in the shallow cuts that decorate her palms. She finally stands up but staggers around the chalk circle etched onto the floor as the men continue to stare with bated breath. Dahlia tries to look at them, tries to see if she can recognize any of them but her mind is so clouded and her body so weak that she can only identify the haggard, brown cloaks they wear. It’s all too claustrophobic and she starts to spin again, hoping that when she next collapses she’ll stay there.

  
The candles have been burning for hours now and most of them had extinguished as Dahlia danced in the room. The lack of light does little to clear the pounding in her head and the hooded men look even more sinister. The only thing visible now are their teeth, gleaming from saliva as they watch the young girl hungrily. Her limbs have begun to tighten now, and dancing has become so difficult that tears well in her eyes. Dahlia’s chest feels too small as her lungs expand and contract under the immense pressure.  
“There is no greater way to die, than for our God.”

  
God has been asleep for so long and Dahlia wants to join Her. The high priest looks on from behind his alter, as his scribe whispers to him in a tone so low Dahlia cannot decipher the words. Her back tilts backwards, her mouth agape as she stares into the ceiling, watching the candles above her flicker in a sick rhythm. Bile rises to her throat, but she battles it and leaps into the air, escaping the ground. Her feet skid on the stone flooring and blood pools around her toes but Dahlia doesn’t care. She’s so close to meeting God.  
Her dance becomes frenzied. The world moves up and down, twirling faster than ever before. The men merge into the walls, the room is now a shade of murky brown, illuminated by dim candle light. Dahlia’s breaths are ragged and heavy, her limbs unable to bend. A final spin, a desperate jump and Dahlia hits the ground for the final time.

  
_“READ THE NUMBERS!”_ The high priest shouts, dragging Dahlia from the unconscious.  
“ _One nine seven six!”_ The scribe responds and his voice drills into her brain.  
_“God will return in nineteen seventy-six!”_  
Dahlia finally closes her eyes.

-

  
She is convinced that something is not right. Dahlia lies on her bed, brown hair slick across her forehead and her dress clings to her body over a layer of sweat. A few of the Order’s brothers came to her house and lit a few candles around her bed to try and drive the sickness out but it only plunged the room into an air of sickly sweetness. Dahlia wipes the sweat from her brow and tries to recall what had happened. She can’t remember.

  
She reaches for the powder the Order provided her and hopes for God to give her a sign on why she feels so ill. Her hand slips and knocks the powder onto the floor. Dahlia cries in desperation and begins to lick the powder that had stuck to her balmy hand. The taste is sweet from the flower it was grinded from and Dahlia falls back into her pillows, eyes glazed over. In her daze, she places one hand on her growing stomach and wonders if the child inside her is responsible for her illness.  
“Why?” She asks her God as her hand reaches towards the ceiling. “Why me?”

  
The ceiling was made from old oak, grown on the outskirts of Silent Hill. Dahlia’s eyes follow the knots of the wood and they twirl and dance under her gaze. Two dark knots within the wood watch over Dahlia and she starts to calm down.  
The knots look like two dark eyes and there’s something so loving about them that Dahlia wants to hold them. She pictures the tree they were cut from, their large branches reaching out from the ceiling and embracing her. She can feel the knotted twigs as they close in around her, protecting her from the needles and nettles of the terrain.  
Dahlia throws her limp arms into the air. “Help me.” She says.  
The eyes look at her in sympathy, Dahlia knows they are loving eyes.  
“Please.” She begs, voice cracking.  
The eyes above her continue to fix on her, soothing her in a strange way. As she stares back into the dark wooden eyes in the ceiling, Dahlia realises.  
This is God.

  
She laughs, tears falling from her own eyes as she babbles to herself. God smiles down at her, though her mouth is not visible. Dahlia lifts herself up from the pillows and crawls to the end of her bed, nightdress amok her knees as she starts to whisper to the ceiling.  
“What’s wrong with me?” She asks, already feeling lightheaded from the movement. She can see herself in the mirror, pale and shaking with black-ringed red eyes. The eerie smile the reflection gives her convinces Dahlia it’s her. God does not reply.  
“Am I dying?” In a bizarre way, Dahlia hopes she is. She wants to rest in the arms of the tree God and bask in the glow of motherly love. She prays that God confirms her desires.  
She doesn’t.

  
Dahlia can feel the room spinning again and she falls onto the bed, lying on her side. Her stomach makes everything so difficult and it has even deprived her the luxury of sleep. Dahlia’s mouth hangs open and her mouth feels very dry. She swallows but her throat constricts. She looks up at God for help.  
God’s eyes have not even blinked since Dahlia’s collapse, but her focus is no longer on Dahlia, it’s on her stomach. Dahlia’s heart beats faster as she folds in on herself and her mind begins to see clarity.  
“Do you need my child?” Dahlia isn’t sure if she said those words or if she simply thought them, but God continues to stare into her stomach and Her answer echoes throughout Dahlia’s brain.  
Dahlia gets up again, baring a wide smile. Her lips crack and bleed from the dryness but she can’t feel pain in this glorious numbness. She stretches her arms out to the sky, her back nearly breaking as she tilts backwards. Her pregnant stomach is the only thing keeping her balance and it’s the only thing God wants.  
“She is yours!” Dahlia exclaims before falling back onto the bed again, panting from excitement. The eyes fade back into the wood and Dahlia knows she has pleased her God.

  
-

  
Alessa sleeps soundly as her mother lies slumped in the corner of her room. In the darkness of night, the only thing that illuminates the room is the artificial light seeping through under the door. The Order told Dahlia that this night would be her hardest, but she disagreed. The cold, dark room represented the Earth with its hateful people and corrupt society. The light seeping in was God’s love and Dahlia was blessed with a daughter who would birth Her. Saint Alessa, Mother of God, begot of the High Priestess Dahlia. Dahlia’s mind swims as she pictures God, born silently into the world through the blood and pain of Alessa. The child is a suitable mother, her own impudence will be forgotten as she births Her own redemption.

  
Had it not been for God’s revelation seven years ago, Dahlia might have killed the girl. She admitted to herself that she was no mother but Alessa proved herself to be bad spawn. Her refusal to pray, rumours of witchcraft. Yes, Alessa was too suitable. The wicked birthing the righteous. Dahlia begins to salivate at the thought, she had predicted this so long ago.  
She had taken great offence when an Order brother insinuated that she might allow her daughter to escape her fate. The offence was so great that Dahlia declared him a heretic and she could see the suffering in his eyes as he blackened over the pyre. She loved God too much to let foolishness like her own genealogy prevent her from performing a most divine duty.  
Her post-partum murder would not be in vain. God would be born from Alessa’s agony, she would burst forth from her scorched body and cleanse the world. Alessa would birth Paradise.  
Dahlia stood up from her chair, gripping it for support as she staggered towards her sleeping daughter. This evil little thing would eventually bear the greatest fruit. Alessa was wicked, possibly sent as punishment for a sin Dahlia could not remember but Dahlia loved her enough to let her redeem herself. Perhaps it was too good for her. The witch that would usher in a new world of God’s love. Both God and Dahlia were merciful to her.

  
Those too weak to accept God will categorise this as the female hysteria, condemn Dahlia for the murder of her own daughter but those people are weak and would not survive to see God’s new world regardless. Dahlia shakes in exuberance as she sees the townspeople burn under God’s cataclysm. She can’t wait. It’s time.  
She walks to the bed and shakes the sleeping girl, who slowly opens her eyes to look at her mother and look at her redemption.  
“Wake up, child. We need to prepare for God.”

The only thing Alessa can see is Satan. 


End file.
